Читать книгу Beginning with a Bash - Phoebe Atwood Taylor - Страница 4

CHAPTER 2

Leonidas twirled his pince-nez on their broad black ribbon, and Dot, with terror in her eyes, watched Martin’s drawn face.

Martin cleared his throat. “I didn’t do it. He—he was dead when I went back there!”

“Are you quite sure the man is dead, Martin?”

“Positive, sir. I looked at him. And I’ve spent hours—well, it seemed like hours though I s’pose it was only a few minutes—wondering whether to bolt or not. But I decided it would only make matters worse.”

“Why should you bolt?” Dot demanded.

“Why? My God, why? I didn’t think that anything more could happen, but here it is. Bill Shakespeare, what’ll I do? I’ve fussed around and cursed North and talked about bashing him ever since I was first arrested. Now—whoops! Grand larceny, vagrancy, theft—and now murder! I didn’t do any of ’em. I didn’t do this. But no one’ll ever believe me!”

“But who could have done it?” Dot looked dazedly around the store as though she expected to find the murderer on the ceiling or between the pages of a book.

In the centre aisle, the minister was still reading his essays, holding the extension light close over the print. At the end of the lane by the door, the dowager was still poring over genealogies and town records. Neither had paid the slightest attention to Martin’s low-voiced statements. Both were completely occupied by their respective quests.

“What’ll I do, Bill?” Martin repeated.

Before Leonidas could answer, a short stocky Italian wearing a black derby and a near-wolf coat walked into the store. He looked questioningly from one to the other and picked Leonidas as representing authority.

“Got this book, huh?” He pulled a card from his pocket and thrust it out.

Leonidas took the card. “Mm. Oh, Oh! Volume Four, The Collected Sermons: Phineas Twitchett.” His quick glance silenced Dot’s exclamation. “No, Mr—I didn’t catch the name?”

“Ain’t got the book, huh?”

“It’s—er—rather an unusual book at the moment,” Leonidas answered smoothly. “May I ask why you want it?”

“For my brother that’s a priest,” was the glib reply.

The ghost of a smile hovered over Leonidas’s lips.

“M’yes. Quite so. Now, we’ve not had that book in stock, nor do we have it at the moment. But if you will leave your name with us, and your address, we will be glad to—”

The Italian snatched the card. “Be back again sometime, later.”

Leonidas watched his departure with considerable regret.

“I wish—ah, well. No matter. Martin, I’m going outside and summon that large policeman who’s been superintending the removal of those cars outside—”

“But, Bill—I mean, Mr. Witherall—”

“Bill will do. I find it somewhat of a relief to be called it to my face.”

“Bill, you know they’ll grab me for this, right off the bat, without—”

Leonidas nodded. “I rather think they will. But the longer we delay, and the longer we delay reporting this, the worse it will be for you.”

Martin sighed as Leonidas left, and impulsively Dot reached out and took his hand.

“Cheer up, Mart. You can count on me as well as on Bill Shakespeare. If they try to pin this on you, they’ll have to plough through a couple of obstacles en route—”

Leonidas ushered in a massive member of Boston’s finest. Behind him was a small nondescript man with a black bag—the sort of man, Dot thought, whom you saw vaguely elbowing people on the fringes of newsreel crowds.

“Sergeant Gilroy,” Leonidas announced, “and Doctor Pinkham.”

Martin drew back into the shadow. Gilroy was the evil genius who had pursued him that afternoon.

“Where’s the corpse?” Gilroy demanded. “Lucky you stopped to chat with me out there, doc. Where’s the corpse, mister, that you found?”

The minister’s book of essays banged to the floor and an audible gasp issued from the genealogy section.

“Where?” Gilroy repeated.

Leonidas started to show him the way, but Gilroy put out a restraining hand. “Wait. Got any customers? So dim in here you can’t tell. Call ’em out. Anyone left since you found the corpse? Anyone skipped?”

“A book thief stole some books and ran out,” Dot said, “but all that happened before we found—”

“Come out, everybody!” Gilroy’s deep bass voice rumbled through the store.

Timidly the minister emerged, followed by the dowager, who was adjusting awe-inspiring lorgnettes.

Gilroy took one look at the clerical collar and removed his cap.

“Sorry to be botherin’ you, father, but you’ll have to stay here till we get this settled. You too, ma’am. Come on back, doc, and let’s take a look at things.”

He barely glanced at Martin, whose face was still in the shadow of the stacks.

“Dear me,” the minister said, nervously fingering his collar, “that officer thought—I mean to say, I’m not—that is, I’m an Episcopalian. I—just this afternoon a man told me I was drunk, that I had my collar on backside to. Now this officer thinks that I am—dear me! I’m Matthew Harbottle of Saint An—dear me, what is all this?”

“Exactly,” the dowager said. “Exactly. What is all this—all this talk about corpses? I am Mrs. Sebastian Jordan.”

If she announced that she were Queen Victoria, there could not have been a whit more finality in her tone. Briefly, Dot explained.

“Without doubt it was that book thief,” Mrs. Jordan said promptly. “My dear child, if I were you, I should call my lawyer at once. In fact,” she picked up the telephone, “I intend to call mine this one moment. One cannot tell what the Boston police may do these days. I remember—but I always thought it was a mistake to change the old uniforms. One could tell a policeman by his uniform in the old days. Now I find myself constantly accosting milkmen and telegraph boys and people who bring the dogs’ dinner. No one,” she dialed a number expertly, “no one has really known how to handle the force since poor dear Mr. Cooli—”

She made four calls in quick succession. Gilroy returned just as she replaced the receiver.

“That’s Professor John North,” he said. “I knew him. He’s dead all right, and he’s been killed, too. The doc says it wasn’t very long ago, neither. Any of you know him? Who found him, first?”

Martin stepped forward.

“Jones! Well, say! Jones, huh?” Gilroy’s faintly puzzled look gave way to a beam of smug satisfaction. “Jones. Well, well. So you sneaked in here, did you? So that’s how I lost you? Well, this clears this all up. Nothing to do now but sit back and wait for the wagon. Yes, sir!”

It was less than ten minutes before the sirens screamed in the street outside. Gilroy straightened up, adjusted his coat collar and furtively polished his shoes by the simple method of rubbing them against the backs of his trouser legs.

Suddenly people began to pour into the store.

Entirely against her will, Mrs. Jordan found herself pushed into the little alley that led to the still undusted drama section, with Dot and Harbottle jammed up beside her. Martin, with a weary smile, lifted himself up to sit precariously on the top of a stack of encyclopedias. The expression on his face said as plainly as words that for him it was all over but the shouting.

Of the original occupants of the store, only Leonidas appeared entirely at ease. He stood firmly by the desk, composedly met the frank stares of the incoming mob, and casually swung his pince-nez.

“Who,” Mrs. Jordan demanded, “are all these persons?”

“Station captain,” Martin turned and spoke in a low whisper, “two plain-clothesmen, two patrolmen—oh, that’s a headquarters inspector. Old pal of mine. Two photographers. Guess the other five are police reporters and news photographers. Only fifteen in here so far. We’ll have to double up in stacks ourselves, pretty soon, if any more come.”

Gilroy saluted the captain and made his report.

“And this Dr Pinkham that was talking to me out in the street that I brought in—” Leonidas winced at the involved conclusion—“he says that North was dead about fifteen minutes or so. I already got the man that done it, cap’n.”

He pointed an accusing finger at Martin as three flash bulbs went off.

“He’s Martin Jones, the one North had arrested for taking that forty thousand from that an—anth—well, that society of his’s funds. Been down the Island for vagrancy since then, and this afternoon he swiped a lady’s handbag from outside a fruit store on Charles Street. I followed him up to the Square here, and was hanging around for him when this accident outside happened. This Jones, he’s threatened North any number of times, cap, and North told me himself he was afraid of him. Ain’t that so?” He appealed to the headquarters inspector, who nodded.

“Yeah, that’s right. He—quick work, doc!”

A short, brisk man and still another photographer squeezed into the store.

“Medical examiner and assistant,” Martin whispered for the benefit of Mrs. Jordan. “Ask me, I know everybody.”

“Just happened to be in when the call came through,” the medical examiner explained genially as he went into the rear part of the store.

Someone had found the lighting switch, and the room, so dim a few minutes before, was now literally glaring with light.

In a miraculously short time the medical examiner returned.

“Bashed square on the base of the skull,” he announced casually. “Really a very pretty job. One of the neatest I’ve seen in a long while. Not too hard to be too messy, not too soft so the fellow’d only be stunned. Well aimed. Well considered. North never knew what hit him.”

“Which,” Leonidas murmured, “is probably scant consolation to Mr. North.”

“What was used for the bash?” the inspector asked.

“Can’t really tell. There are some golf clubs there that I told Kennedy to take along and look over.”

“Yours, ain’t they, Jones?” Gilroy said.

“They’re mine,” Martin admitted, “and you know very well they’re mine. But I just wish that one of you would try to swing a golf club in that six-inch space out there. I know it can’t be done, because I tried—”

“Oho,” Gilroy said. “So you tried, huh?”

“I’d found a book on golf, and I was practicing, or trying to, and I couldn’t, so—”

“Yeah, but you could of used it like a hammer,” the inspector interrupted. “The clubs belong to you, anyways. You’re an anthropologist, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Know all about bones, don’t you?”

“Anatomy? Yes. But—”

“Then you’d know where to kill a man by hitting him—”

“Yes, but inspector, consider this,” Martin said patiently. “You don’t have to be an anthropologist to know that a blow sharply struck on the base of the skull is fatal. Why, you—you—” Martin swallowed twice, “why, primitive people all over the world use that blow. Strike the cervical plexus hard enough, and the medulla is instantly paralyzed. I admit that I may know the terms, but you tell me how many men don’t know the theory of the rabbit punch!”

“That’s fair enough,” the medical examiner said. “It wouldn’t have taken any anatomical expert to have hit that blow. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything of the sort. Got your pictures, Kennedy? Good. Send North along as soon as my ambulance comes. I’ll see him later.”

“Now.” The inspector turned to Martin as the doctor left. “Now, you—”

“I know,” Martin said. “I know. I’m here. I’ve threatened North. I’ve a criminal record. But you know I came here by chance. It was an accident that I stumbled in here instead of any other store in the square. It was an accident that North happened to come in here. He never frequented bookstores. I didn’t even know he was here, either, until after that crash outside. After that, I went back and found him out there—”

“Didn’t know he was here, huh? Did you?” the inspector looked at Mr. Harbottle and Mrs. Jordan.

“Naturally I knew he was here. He bumped me,” Mrs. Jordan told him. “Rude person, I thought.”

“I—dear me,” Harbottle said. “He—that is, I heard him make a lot of noise about his ‘Transcript’. He was most rude about it, I felt. He had a loud voice, and he seemed to be a—er—singularly outspoken man.”

“That’s all very well,” Martin said, “but he didn’t happen to bump me, and I didn’t hear his voice or notice his damn bad manners. I was too busy with that golf book. I never dreamed of running into North in a place like this. Why pick on me and my golf clubs? Almost any object in the world might have been used to kill North. Any one of a number of people might have killed him. He was an eminent anthropologist, but he wasn’t a bit popular. Why, there’s a Nazi sympathizer who’s been writing him threatening letters for months, all because of some cracks North made about the Aryan supremacy! And—”

The inspector went to the phone book, flicked the pages and finally dialled a number.

“Yeah?” he said to Martin as he waited. “Yeah? I’ll call your bluff, buddy. I got you, and you know it. Hullo. This Professor John North’s house? Who’s this speaking? The maid? I’m trying to find out where I can get hold of Martin Jones. Happen to know? He called today, you say? Around three o’clock. Wanted to find North to get into the museum to get some of his papers, huh? I see. You told him North was going to a bookstore? What store? Oh, he was going first to the shops on Corn Hill, and then Pemberton Square and around that section. North had a list, you say? And Jones was going to follow. He said he might!”

There was something about the inspector’s smile which reminded Dot of a cat about to pounce on a mouse.

“I just wanted to get my papers at the museum,” Martin said desperately. “Some old papers and a thesis I’d forgotten about. I—”

“Hullo, there. Got the list, have you? That’s fine. Will you read it to me? Peters was fourth, you say? Peters on Pemberton Square? You told Martin Jones that, did you? Okay, sister. Thanks.”

He rang off and turned around to Martin.

“Let’s go, Jones.”